Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #21

Beloved, much remains of the night—do not go yet.
In a night of yearnings
there arrive such hours;
I have banked the fire within—
those sparklers that slipped, let them flare again;
do not make my small circle of allotted fate
smaller still;
Beloved, much remains of the night—do not go yet.

Within the sealed petals of the lips
the speech of the lips
was still imprisoned;
whose love-story
was ever voiced by a mere yes and no?
What little was spoken—hesitant—
was only the prologue;
Beloved, much remains to say—do not go yet;
Beloved, much remains of the night—do not go yet.

Limp lie the arms of the sky
around the body of the night;
the moon, drowned and bewildered,
is lost in the wine of moonlight;
bees, still forgetful,
in nectar-sweet lanes—
Beloved, the water-born stand silent—do not go yet;
Beloved, much remains of the night—do not go yet.

The night will douse the unsolved riddle
of truth and dream;
somehow the day keeps
everyone's breath amused, my friend;
until the stars begin to drowse and fall
i will make my heart steadfast;
Beloved, the dawn is far—do not go yet;
Beloved, much remains of the night—do not go yet.

Our prayers are all the same: that life should not end. Our desires are all the same: that this life should last forever. Though in this life we have hardly found anything, still we wish it would go on forever. Perhaps we wish so precisely because nothing has yet been found—no morning has yet arrived; not even a single ray of joy has touched life—and all is already drawing to a close. But all will end. Our prayers will go unheard, our cravings unfulfilled. Our wants will flare within us, scorch us, and become ash. Everything here will be left behind. We may cry rivers, yet the beloved must go. You too will have to go. However much of the night remains, however far the dawn may be, however much remains to be said—here life is momentary: now it is, now it is not. In life only one thing is certain: death. Everything else is uncertain. Therefore whoever has even a little awareness, a little understanding, will take some decisions concerning death. Those decisions are called dharma.

If there were no death, there would be no dharma. Dharma is not because of life. If it were only life and life—only happiness and happiness, only flowers and flowers—who would think, who would ponder? Why would one think, why ponder? It is death that has placed a question mark upon everything. And when it may arrive—no one knows! There is not the trust of even a single moment. So the foolish live as if death will never come. And the wise live as if death has already come, as if next moment it will knock upon the door.

If death were to be in the very next moment, how would you live? There would be a revolution in your life.

A man used to come to Eknath, to his satsang. He came many times, he went many times. One day Eknath said to him, It seems to me you wish to ask something and yet you cannot. Some shame, some modesty, some hesitation stops you. Ask today. Today no one else is here either—you have come very early this morning.

The man said, You have seen rightly—I do wish to ask. A small thing—and I don’t ask out of embarrassment. It is this: you are a human being like us, made of our same bones, flesh, marrow—do you never feel the desire for position, prestige? Do greed and the fire of anger never blaze up in you? Do lust and the longings of Maya never arise in your life? That is what I wish to ask. You appear so pure, so innocent—like a flower fresh with the early morning; like dew shining in the first rays of the sun—you seem immaculate. Therefore I am afraid to ask; still, this hesitation must be broken, I must ask—without asking I cannot live; my sleep has been ruined. This question echoes in my mind. Doubt arises too—perhaps this blamelessness is only on the surface, and inside the same junk lies piled up as in me.

Eknath heard him through and said, Your question is meaningful. But before I answer, there is something more urgent to tell—lest I forget it while answering. While you were speaking my eyes fell upon your hand; I saw the line of your life has ended. Within seven days you will die. Now ask.

The man stood up. His legs gave way. His chest pounded. His breath must have halted. For a moment the heart would have stopped. He said, I have nothing to ask—I must go home. Eknath said, Not yet; you are not to die now. You will live seven days—there is time enough. You can reach home in seven days. Ask your question—carry its answer with you.

He said, To hell with the question and to hell with the answer. I care for neither. You do as you like—I'm going home. He was a young man. While he climbed the temple steps his legs were strong; now as he returned, he descended taking support from the wall. Hands and feet were trembling, eyes were blurring. Seven days! There could be no doubt in Eknath’s word—this man had never lied. Why would he today? Again and again he looked at his hand. He ran home. Whom he met on the way, who saluted him and who did not—he understood nothing. Smoke, smoke all around. If death is in seven days, then death has already come. How long will seven days take to pass? These days come and these days go!

Reaching home he took to his bed. Wife and children asked, What has happened? For a while he hid it; then he could not—such things cannot be hidden. He had to tell. The crying began. The hearth went cold. Within seven days he became skin and bone; his eyes sank. And again and again he asked only one thing: how much time is left?

On the last day, at sunset, Eknath appeared at the door. The whole family fell at his feet, weeping. Eknath said, Do not weep—let me enter. The man did not even seem to recognize Eknath. Though he had attended satsang all his life, death had thrown everything into confusion. Eknath said, Do you recognize me? I am Eknath.

The man opened his eyes and said, Yes, I remember a little. How have you come? For what have you come? Eknath said, I have come to ask: within these seven days, did any thought of sin arise? Did any flames of lust, anger, greed, attachment flare up?

The man said, Are you joking? When death stands in front, where is the space for lust to rise, for anger, for greed, for attachment? Those with whom I had quarrels—I begged forgiveness. Those against whom I had filed suits—I asked pardon. What enmity now? When death has come, with whom will I be an enemy? In seven days it never occurred to me to accumulate wealth. In seven days no longing stirred. Sex vanished. Such darkness had fallen all around, death frightened me so much—what kind of question is this! Is this even a question?

Eknath said, Get up. Now you are not to die. I only gave you the answer to your question. That is how death appears to me—definite, certain. If not after seven days, then after seventy years—what difference? Seven days pass; seventy years also pass. Your death has not yet come. I was answering your question. Now rise!

But from that day a revolution occurred in that man’s life. Death did not come, yet in one sense the man died; and in another sense a new birth happened. This new birth is called dharma. This new birth I call sannyas.

Outwardly all was the same, and will remain the same—the same plants, the same people, the same marketplace, the same shop, the same house—but within, a revolution takes place, a transformation. And the root of that revolution is death.

The foolish do not look at death. They keep their eyes shut, they turn their back toward the greatest truth of life. What is certain, they keep denying. They go on persuading their mind: always someone else dies, I will not die; my death—where? Not now! There is plenty of time, I am still young. They keep forgetting themselves—even while lying on the hospital bed counting their last breaths. Even then they hope they will be saved. Even then desires do not end, longings do not cease. Even then they do calculations: if I survive, what will I do?

A politician was brought to the hospital. Doctors examined him—he was a big leader, the top doctors examined him thoroughly, very worried too. They said, It is too late—you have been bitten by a rabid dog. Now whether the injections will work or not is hard to say. The politician said, Quickly bring paper, bring a pen. The doctor gave paper and pen; the politician began to write at once. The doctor asked, Are you writing your will? Don’t panic so much. Death isn’t going to come just like that—you will still live, and we will do our best to save you. There is no need to draw up a will so fast. The politician said, Who is writing a will? I am making a list of those people I should bite once I go mad.

Till the last breath politics does not leave. He must have been writing the names of his enemies—who will be number one, who number two, who number three? He was making a long list: I will give these a lesson, I will bite these! Even at the point of death man keeps thinking: not yet! He postpones.

Do not postpone. If you wish to awaken, do not postpone death. Look at death. To look at death is the method of awakening. And whoever has looked at death—there cannot but be revolution in his life. Gulal says:

Shabd sneh lagawal ho, pawal guru reeti.
Pulki-pulki man bhawal ho, dhahli bhram-bheeti.

Saints have used the word shabd in two meanings. One meaning is the Omkar sound. When you become utterly silent, still—when all desires, wishes, longings, ambitions grow faint—then in that soundless state the inner resonance that arises, the joy-music that bursts forth within, the vina that begins to sing in your innermost—this has been called the Shabd. Not these words we speak. That anahata nada—the unstruck sound—has been called Shabd, for it is the voice of the Divine. What we speak is our construction; our words are makeshift. Hence there are three thousand languages in the world—otherwise there would be only one. Whether you call a rose a gulab or a rose—what difference? If there are three thousand languages, the rose will have three thousand names—yet the rose is the rose. Names are all artificial; languages are all artificial. Our words are for getting by. Life needs them; without words how would things work? So we have made arrangements—agreements.

Every language is an agreement. Some people together decide to call this thing a gulab; then that thing is called gulab. It serves. Say, Bring a gulab—the other understands. Say, Roses are blooming in the garden—the indication is understood. But does the rose really have a name? Does it have an adjective? All of that is artificial. These human languages—their words are not the real Word. The real Word is that which is heard when all human languages drop, when you enter supreme silence. Not the words we utter, but the Word that is heard deep within, the resonance that arises inside, of which you are not the speaker but the listener.

Mahavira used a very lovely term. He said there are four fords, by which a person crosses from this shore to the other. The first ford: shravaka; the second: shravika—two only because of male and female, otherwise it is one. Shravaka–shravika one ford; and sadhu–sadhvi, the second. Through the centuries sadhus and sadhvis have tried to explain that the shravaka–shravika are lower, the sadhus–sadhvis higher. Basically this is wrong. If you understand Mahavira, another secret opens. Shravaka means one who has heard. Heard what? The anahata nada. One who has heard the Shabd—who has heard that inner resonance—and by hearing became free, crossed over; that very resonance became the boat, that very Word became the boat.

Those who are simple, guileless, will reach the other shore as shravakas—just by hearing they will cross. In whom there is naturalness and trust, for them hearing is enough. Those will have to practice who have no trust. Sadhana means effort will be needed, labor will be needed.

In my view the status of the shravaka is higher than that of the sadhaka. The sadhaka means: it did not come simply; much upturning had to be done. He stood on his head, did asanas, austerities, vows—then with great difficulty he could hear. Shravaka means: he listened simply. As in a class, the student who understands the teacher just by listening—would we call him intelligent, or the one who first must stand on his head, do asanas, push-ups, and then understand? The one who understands simply—he is intelligent.

Mahavira said: some are liberated just by hearing; and some do not understand by hearing alone—their inner fog is thick, darkness heavy; their ego is like a rock. Rocks have to be broken. They will have to labor hard—and after much effort they will be free. But the term shravaka is very dear. No one asks, though so many commentaries are written on Jain scriptures—no one asks what is meant by shravaka. What listening? Listening to what speaks within you. There is an inner voice, an inner sound. From there the Vedas arose, the Upanishads arose; from there the Bible, from there the Quran. From that space Mahavira stood and spoke, Buddha spoke, Kabir spoke, Nanak spoke. Yet between what was heard and what was spoken a split enters—for when you hear, it is God speaking; when you speak what you heard, then you must use artificial language—and entering artificial language, truth becomes almost untrue.

Shabd sneh lagawal ho…

So Shabd has two meanings. One: that which is heard within. Love that; listen to that. The method of listening is dhyana. Dhyana means: put aside the artificial, so the spontaneous can flare forth. Forget what you have learned, so the unlearned can be revealed—can explode. You are filled with noise; how many words crowd your inside! What all rubbish you keep collecting—as if collecting diamonds! Throw garbage into someone’s house and he will be angry; throw it into someone’s skull and he is pleased—this is called conversation, even satsang. What satsang are you doing, and with whom? With those who themselves do not know, who themselves have not heard—who are tangled in verbal nets just as you are.

So one meaning of Shabd is: listen to the inner sound. The second meaning is: the words of one who has heard that inner sound. Around such words clings a little of that resonance; a little reaches you—the fragrance, a taste, a faint tone enters his words. That is the only meaning of satsang: to sit near those who have known themselves. If they speak, their speech will carry some news of the unknown; if they are silent, their silence will carry news.

Therefore Shabd has two meanings. The essential meaning is to hear the inner sound. The secondary meaning, by extension: to let the speech of those who have heard become lodged in your heart.

From listening to priests and pundits the journey of dharma does not happen. Priests and pundits are worse off than you—less simple, more complex.

I have heard: Chandulal’s wife went to the village’s chief pundit, because seven days before Chandulal had gone to the market to buy potatoes and had not returned. There is a limit to waiting. Who else to ask? People said, Go to the pundit—he is also an astrologer, a knower of scriptures; some secret will surely be revealed there.

The wife told the pundit, My husband Chandulal went to buy potatoes seven days ago, he has not yet returned. Tell me, helpless woman, what should I do? The pundit thought hard, closed his eyes, muttered some mantras; then said, Sister, what has happened has happened. Seven days have passed and the potatoes have not come—now there is only one way: whatever is in the house—lentils and such—cook that.

What else to do!

Your priests and pundits are people like you—no difference at all. Perhaps they can argue a bit more; perhaps they can quote scriptures. But fundamentally they have not known. Therefore their quotations and scriptural knowledge and arguments are of little use.

It is the words of those who have known that can awaken you. Those who can say, We have realized. Those who can say, God is our experience—not our belief but our realization; not our notion but our felt truth. And a strange thing—whenever someone tells you that God is his experience, you get angry with him. Those who say, God is our belief—you are not angry with them. Jesus was crucified. His only fault was that he said, I have known God—face to face. Hundreds of priests and pundits were quoting scriptures in Israel, and no one crucified them.

Jesus returned to his village only once after becoming a Satguru. The villagers brought their scripture and said, Read from here and explain. Jesus opened where it fell, read a few lines, and said, Whatever is said here is true, because I am a witness, a seer—it is my experience too. The villagers were so offended—This man claims such a thing! Born among us, we have seen him carrying wood and making furniture in his father’s shop—Jesus was a carpenter’s son—we saw him sell and buy right here; grew up in the dust of this village—and today he says, My testimony, my witness: these words are true. The story says they chased him out, took him to a hilltop to throw him down—to finish him.

And the same scripture was explained daily by pundits in the village—yet none of them ever said, This is my experience. They all said, If it is in the scripture, it must be true. But whoever has said, It is my experience—whenever it has been said—we have harassed him. What is the matter? We should have honored him. If anyone deserves harassment, it is he who has not experienced and yet says, This must be true. How will you say, It must be true, until you have known?

But we are satisfied with the pundit—our ego is not hurt by him. He does not know, we do not know—both are ignorant—so the adjustment is easy. But when someone says, I know, our ego is pricked. We become eager for revenge—Look at his audacity! We have not known till now, and he has known—we will not allow it.

We hammered spikes into Mahavira’s ears; we pelted stones at Buddha; we let a mad elephant loose upon him; we rolled boulders.

The story says that when the mad elephant was set upon Buddha, the expectation was certain—the elephant had killed many. But before Buddha he halted—stopped. The mad elephant paused, bewildered—What to do? The elephant knew only two types: those who brandished spears and fought, or those who ran away. Buddha did neither—he neither pulled a spear nor ran; he sat as he sat, in the same serene posture—as a lotus in bloom. The elephant could not make sense of this man—what should be done? Even a mad elephant had so much sense—but humans do not.

The story also says that when a rock was rolled down the mountain aimed at Buddha, every geometric calculation had been made that it would fall right upon him and finish him; yet the rock, nearing Buddha, was filled with shyness and slid aside, breaking the law of mathematics.

Rocks seem to have more awareness than man.

Whether such stories are fact or not—I do not accept that a mad elephant would have such awareness or a rock would violate mathematics—yet these stories are meaningful: they say man behaved worse than rocks, more madly than mad elephants. Else how could you poison Socrates, kill Mansoor, crucify Jesus? What was their fault? All shared a single fault: they said, We are witnesses. They said, We are scripture. The pundit does not say this. The pundit argues for your scripture that it should be right—and what value has argument? It can be spun for or against. Remember, logic is a courtesan—logic has no fidelity.

Once Mulla Nasruddin was boasting among friends: there is no hospital in this city in which I have not been. I have combed one hospital after another—not a single one left. When Chandulal could bear it no more he said, I can bet there is one hospital you have not been to—and if you prove you have, here are fifty rupees. Mulla asked, Tell me which hospital. Chandulal said, Have you ever gone to the city’s maternity hospital? Nasruddin pocketed the fifty and said, O Chandulal, I was born there.

With argument anything can be said. Logic has no reliability. That is why the theist and the atheist have been debating for centuries, deciding nothing. Neither the theist won, nor the atheist. Logic cannot make anyone win—it has no roots in life. It is an intellectual game—a chess match.

Kahlil Gibran tells a famous story: in a village there was one theist and one atheist—both learned, skilled debaters. The village was harassed; the theist persuaded people that theism is right; the atheist persuaded them atheism is right. The theist ate people’s heads insisting God exists; the atheist followed eating their heads insisting He does not. People said, Whether God is or is not—we have nothing to do with it; why are you after us poor folk? You two debate for one night and decide—end your quarrel so we can live in peace.

On a full-moon night the whole village gathered. The theist and the atheist prepared and grappled. A fierce debate. People were amazed: when the theist argued, it seemed there must be God; when the atheist argued, it seemed there cannot be. Many times the wind changed that night—many times the weather changed. Waves of theism rose, then waves of atheism. By morning a great wonder had happened: the theist found the atheist’s argument appealing, and the atheist found the theist’s appealing. The village’s misery remained as it was. People beat their heads: no use—again the same nuisance! Only the labels changed: the atheist became a theist, the theist an atheist.

From logic there is no conclusion—only the illusion of conclusion. In experience there is conclusion. One who has known, who has experienced, who has heard the inner music—whose heart-strings have begun to sing—there is a fragrance in his words; even if logic is lacking, there is fragrance; even if proofs are lacking, there is felt truth. There is something unique in his words.

Have you noticed? The words Krishna spoke to Arjuna—you read the same in the Gita; pundits repeat them for centuries—yet when Krishna spoke them there was something, and when the pundit comments on them there is nothing. The words are the same. When Krishna spoke there was a fragrance—of experience. When the pundit speaks, it is hollow—mere words; like a spent cartridge. It looks like a bullet, but it has already been fired—dead. Like a corpse—appearing like a living man asleep, but it is only a look-alike; it does not breathe, eyes will not open, it will neither rise nor sit nor speak.

Scriptures are almost like this: dead truth. When they were spoken, arising from someone’s innermost, they had life—they breathed, their heart beat, there was a soul within. When Krishna spoke to Arjuna, it must have been something else entirely—the flower was still on the plant, sap still flowing. Then you pluck the flower, press it in a book—open it a thousand years later—you will find the flower’s corpse.

So with the Gita, the Quran, the Bible, the Dhammapada.

You can revive these corpses if you too come to experience—if you too become a witness. As Jesus said, I testify that what is written here is true—on the day you too can say, I testify that what is written here is true—until then it is belief. Beliefs are hollow, superficial. Believe as much as you like—there will be no substance.

Everyone is believing—some are Hindus, some Muslims, some Christians, some Jains, some Buddhists, some Sikhs—yet with all these believers, where is the fragrance of dharma on this earth? Where is the sun of dharma, where its light? Darkness everywhere. And every person believes in light! But however much you believe in light, lamps do not light up through belief. Light the lamp—then there will be light. Belief is not enough; experience is needed.

Shabd has two meanings: one—when you go within and listen; and two—when you speak of that Word. When you listen, it is perfect, complete; when you speak, it becomes incomplete. Still, some news comes. Then a third thing: that Word is written down—scripture is made; commentaries are written for centuries; those who know nothing comment; layers of falsehood settle upon falsehood.

There are a thousand commentaries on the Gita. Krishna’s words cannot have a thousand meanings. Was Krishna deranged? What he said has only one meaning. How then a thousand commentaries? A thousand I say for the famous ones; if the obscure are counted, they are many thousand; add the unpublished and the number reaches hundreds of thousands.

What happened? People extracted meanings to suit themselves. You can play with words. The true meaning of a word opens only in satsang. If you try to impose your intellect upon the word, whatever meaning you gather will be of your intellect—you will miss the real.

Therefore, if you wish to understand Krishna, sit near a living Krishna. There has never been any other way, nor will there be. And the joy is—if you can sit near a living Satguru, you will not only understand Krishna, you will understand Christ too; not only Mahavira, you will understand Mohammed too. For the matter is one; only the mode of saying differs. What they saw is one, what they experienced is one—what they spoke differs; expression varies with time, language varies.

Shabd sneh lagawal ho, pawal guru reeti.
Pulki-pulki man bhawal ho, dhahli bhram-bheeti.

If love fastens to the Shabd, you will find the guru’s way. What is the guru’s way? Satsang. The single way of all gurus is that a bridge of heart is raised between guru and disciple—not of intellect, not of thought; feeling to feeling—a bond of love, a betrothal of love—above all, a love-betrothal. That is the guru’s way. How will it happen? Only in one way: by hearing someone’s Word your inner vina begins to resonate; by sitting near someone, what lay asleep within you begins to stir; the seed within you sprouts; something begins to happen in you that never happened before—silence descends, emptiness drops in; a glimpse of life’s mystery comes; life’s poetry and beauty move you.

Pulki-pulki man bhawal ho…

Then you will dance. The heart will be full of feeling—overwhelmed.

…dhahli bhram-bheeti.

And in that very moment, the wall of delusion that would not fall despite all your devices, collapses. By your devising it cannot fall—for in devising you have already conceded that the wall truly exists. Suppose in the night’s darkness a rope lies and you take it for a snake, and someone says, Brother, it is not a snake—merely a rope, I saw it in daylight. And you say, All right, I am going—and you set out with a sword. He will ask, Why the sword? You say, To slay the illusory snake. But your sword shows you still hold the snake to be real. If you held it to be an illusion, what need of a sword? Or you carry a lantern—so the illusory snake will not bite me. If it is illusory, how will it bite? The lantern proves you still think it real, though you pronounce it illusory.

How many in this land say, The world is Maya—and then ask, How to renounce Maya? A strange thing. A man says, My pocket is empty—how to empty it? You know the proverb: what will a naked man wring out after a bath? There is nothing to wring. Yet he worries: how shall I wring? Where shall I wring? Where shall I dry my clothes? He is a sky-clad monk—there is nothing to wring, nothing to dry—yet the anxieties grip him; from fear he does not bathe.

The sky-clad monk does not bathe—perhaps from this very fear! In Jainism the digambar monk has no rule to bathe. Let those bathe who have clothes—if there are no clothes, why bathe? The digambar ought to bathe even more—for all dust and dirt settles on his body; if there were clothes, it would settle on clothes and the washerman would take them. A Jain monk should sometimes go to the washerman! But the Jain monk does not bathe.

Even filth is taken for spirituality.

The Jain monk does not brush his teeth—for that is adornment, brushing is adornment; bathing is adornment! At least while you live in the house—keep it clean a bit; where is the question of adornment? In cleaning your teeth, what adornment is there? And if layers of grime gather on the teeth—does that give spirituality? If the body begins to stink—does that give spirituality? Yet it is taken for spiritual.

Count Keyserling, a great Western thinker, wrote in his diary after returning from India: Going to India I understood that being sick, being dirty, tormenting oneself, being utterly melancholic—these are the signs of being spiritual.

He wrote in jest, in satire—and he is right. The house you live in—let it be a house, but do not identify with it; still, bathe, wash, brush; keep the place clean.

There can be spirituality in cleanliness—not in filth. Yet we worship filth; and if someone is utterly filthy we call him a paramhansa. If the latrine is nearby and he eats there, we say, See—paramhansa! If in the plate from which he eats the dog also eats, we say, See—paramhansa! What foolish notions we have made. And the result? Those who want to be called paramhansas must do these things—and these are easy things, not very difficult.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was asked by her neighbor, I find it very hard to wake my husband in the morning—he won’t get up. But how do you wake yours even before sunrise? Nasruddin’s wife said, I have a trick—I throw the cat on him. The neighbor asked, How does throwing the cat wake him? She said, He has to get up—because he sleeps with the dog.

Now call such a man a paramhansa! If you sleep with a dog and someone throws a cat upon you—the war that breaks out, dharmakshetre Kurukshetre—you must get up; what will you do? Run from the bed. These are taken for the marks of a paramhansa.

Many sleep with dogs—in the West very many. Relations between humans have soured, so men befriend dogs. In one sense it is good—no quarrels, no fuss. At least the dog will not ask when you enter the house, Where have you been? So late? Speak the truth! He asks nothing—poor fellow. Come from anywhere—he wags his tail. Welcome!

Mulla Nasruddin took his dog to the doctor: Cut off his tail. The doctor said, Have you gone mad? Such a beautiful dog—why cut off his tail? Cut it, said Mulla. My mother-in-law is coming—I do not want any arrangement of welcome in the house, and this fool will wag his tail.

Shabd sneh lagawal ho, pawal guru reeti.
Pulki-pulki man bhawal ho, dhahli bhram-bheeti.

This illusory world cannot be dropped by your effort—for effort accepts it as real. In the grace of the Satguru, one day it is seen as illusion—finished; the wall falls.

Satguru kripa agam bhayo ho, hriday bisram.

This happens only by his grace, by his compassion. Buddha has said: wherever meditation fructifies, around that person compassion showers. Where the lamp of meditation is lit, around him rays of karuna spread.

Satguru kripa agam bhayo ho…

What was never to be, has happened; what never happens, has happened. That which had never been imagined has occurred—the unimaginable, the beyond-mind—has occurred. An unprecedented event—rest has come to the heart. All the running is gone. All the turmoil is over.

Ab ham sab bisrawal ho, nischay man Ram.

All is forgotten—now the mind rests only in Ram.

The mind has two states: kam and Ram. Kam means: the running—this and that; however much is gained, the 'more' never ends. Kam means derangement. Ram means: kam has ended; the wall of delusion has fallen; there is no more running to obtain. What is, is more than needed. For what is, there is gratitude to God—grace. Then rest comes.

The mark of a saint is not filth—it is rest. His restful state. No running anywhere; nowhere to come, nowhere to go; nothing to be, nothing to get—not even moksha to get. Just as he is, where he is—content. Note it well: as he is, where he is, with what is—completely fulfilled. That fulfilment, that rest—slowly it begins to enter the disciple too. For you become like those with whom you live.

Chutal jag byoharwa ho, chutal sab thawn.

The world’s dealings drop—without dropping them. This is the guru’s way: the world’s dealings drop, without being dropped. If you have to drop, something remains stuck. Whatever you drop, you remain bound to it. Someone abandons wealth and runs to the forest; he will think only of wealth—what he has left behind will haunt him. Why did he leave? He was afraid. Only the fearful run; fear gives birth to flight.

And you cannot be free of what you fear.

One who left woman—wherever he lives, the thought of woman will circle his mind; indeed, even more. Living with a woman, perhaps the thought of woman does not arise so much; the truth is, living with a woman the thought arises of renouncing woman—O God, save me! The woman thinks too—how to be free! But retreat to a cave, and she will be remembered; you will realize what all she was doing for you. At home you never felt it; you thought she did nothing but cause trouble. In the cave you will know what she was doing. Now light the fire, and the wood will not catch—tears flow from your eyes—then you will remember. Then you will feel—what a fuss I made! Then the virtues of the woman will appear—poor thing, however she was, she was good. At least these things I did not have to do. Now you sweep your cave, scrub utensils; where is the time for bhajan-kirtan? Go fetch water—far away, Ganga-water! At home everything was at hand. In such convenience you could not remember Ram; in such inconvenience how will you? Do you think anyone can thank God amid inconvenience? If you could not in convenience, what will you do in discomfort?

A woman does not know what her husband is doing for her—if he leaves, then she knows. From morning till night he labors—for her, for the children—yet she never thanked him; always at his neck.

If you stay with woman, thoughts of leaving may come many times—a man would be hard to find in whom they do not. Such a woman is hard to find who does not think: it would be better had I remained unmarried! But if you go far away, you will remember—deeply. Our monks therefore are harassed, and what they write in their scriptures—that woman is the gate of hell—they are not writing about woman; they are describing their own state: We cannot catch even a glimpse of Ram; only the woman appears—this is the gate of hell! She will not leave us—who is after them? Only their own imagination—because they fled unripe.

There are two ways revolution can happen in life. One is unripe—you flee, leaving; attraction still remained, yet you fled. The other is ripe—attraction itself has died; it is seen as illusion. From that seeing the revolution happens—with no reason ever to turn back; one never looks back.

Chutal jag byoharwa ho, chutal sab thawn.

All the running dropped; all transactions of the world dropped; all lies of the world dropped. Here, all is transaction. Whatever we speak to each other is business. The husband says to the wife, I love you, without you I cannot live a day—inside he thinks something else: how to be free of this woman; O God, what trouble have you put me in; what fruits of past karma am I suffering! Outwardly he says, Without you I cannot live a moment; inwardly he thinks, How to live a moment with you—that is the difficulty!

Once Mulla Nasruddin’s wife, for household savings, made a new arrangement. She said to Mulla, If you want a kiss, first put five rupees in this box; then take the kiss. If you want to embrace me, first put ten rupees in the box; then embrace me. In this way the rates for various modes of love were fixed. After a month, when Mulla opened the savings box, he was astonished—the rupees were far more than he had expected. He asked, What is this—how so much? The wife, rolling her eyes, said, Ah, not everyone is as stingy as you!

Here, one thing above, another within. All kinds of deceptions prevail. If you deceive, do not think only you deceive—others deceive too. All transactions are of deceit, of mutual exploitation.

Mulla came home one day. He felt a suspicion: the bed seemed disturbed, the wife appeared frightened. Then the child came and said, Papa, there is a man hiding in the closet. He opened the closet—there was a man. Brother, what are you doing here? I came to fix the electricity, he said. All right—fix it and go. Then Mulla thought there is another wardrobe—let’s see. He opened it—another man hid inside. Brother, what are you doing here? I came to fix the tap. Fine—fix it and go. Then, to freshen the air of the closed room, he opened the window—there sat a man on the ledge. Brother, what are you doing? He said, When you accepted those two, accept me too—I am just waiting for the bus. On the fifth floor, perched on the window, waiting for a bus! But when you accepted the other two, why hide—so said the man.

Everything is being taken for granted; you accept, they accept; you know, they know—games within games. Illusions within illusions. Cheats within cheats. Inside, everyone knows how the deceits are working—because the mind can only deceive. The mind does not know how to trust, how to love. The mind is dishonest, crafty, hypocritical—a contrivance of deception. Therefore all relations of the mind are show—one thing above, another within.

Chutal jag byoharwa ho, chutal sab thawn.

Says Gulal: all transactions of the world have dropped—when the mind is gone, the world’s transaction is gone. And those places we considered our home—those resting places—have ended too. Now all is an inn—stay the night, at dawn rise and go.

Phirab chalab sab thakal ho, ekau nahin gaon.

We have wandered everywhere, tired ourselves, and found not a single village that is ours. There is no village of ours here. The village is across somewhere—beyond the mind. Neither in body nor in mind is our village—our village is in consciousness. There lies rest. Whoever reaches there truly lives—truly knows.

Yahi sansar beilwat ho, bhulo mat koi.

Beilwat is a creeping vine: it spreads everywhere; it blooms flowers, but they wither quickly.

Yahi sansar beilwat ho, bhulo mat koi—

This world is like that vine. Flowers do bloom, but at once they fade; hardly have they bloomed, they are gone.

…bhulo mat koi.

Maya bas na lage ho, phir ant na roi.

If this worldly enchantment does not seize you—if you stay awake—you will not have to weep at the end. People do not weep at death because of death, but because life was wasted. Those whose life was meaningful enter death laughing—dancing they enter.

Chetahu kyon nahin jagahu ho…

Awaken! Wake up!

…sovahu din-raat.

You sleep day and night. With eyes open you sleep; with eyes closed you sleep. The sleep is deep. What is this sleep? Your present state is sleep: you do not even know who you are—what deeper sleep can there be? You do not know where you come from, where you go, what the destiny of life is. You are caught in the frenzy, in the race—where is the leisure to ask, Who am I? Where is the leisure to ask, From where have I come, where am I going? If ordinarily you met a man at a crossroads and asked, Who are you? and he said, I do not know—you would think him mad. Where are you coming from?—I do not know. Where are you going?—I do not know. Then why are you going?—What else to do? Somewhere I must go. People are going so fast—look at their pace, as if they know the destination. Jostling and shoving—they see nothing.

A man boarded a bus—packed to the brim—no space. He stood in a corner. A woman sat beside him. After a while, the man took out his eye—a glass eye—threw it up, caught it back, fitted it. The woman was frightened—What is he doing! She stared fixedly: he looks odd, a crazy man. After ten or fifteen minutes, he took out his eye again; when he tossed and caught it and fitted it, the woman could not bear it—she screamed, What are you doing! He said, What am I doing? I’m only looking ahead with my eye—whether any seat is empty.

With a stone eye you look ahead—Is there any seat empty? Look at yourself—do you see anything ahead? Ahead or anywhere? Even the real eyes do not seem real—stone eyes are stone, but we have turned the real ones into stone. Until eyes are joined to the heart, they see nothing—they remain blind. Joined to the heart, awakening begins.

Chetahu kyon nahin jagahu ho, sovahu din-raat.

How long will you sleep?

One who lives in the darkness of the past—what can he know of the new dawn?
If the eyes cannot see, what can they know of morning’s first light!

In the rustle of yesterdays he loses each moment;
he makes today a copy of yesterday;
he praises yesterday’s glory without tiring,
and in this very today he wastes himself weeping.
He who cannot understand today—what can he know of tomorrow’s talk!

Life is a dance of moments,
the seed becoming sprout, ever-changing;
for the sake of the coming, the past is offered,
from instant to instant life is changing.
Who cannot know this moment—what can he know of the Eternal!

Life is like a flowing river—
no birth, no death.
If the banks are slipping away,
ahead there is honeyed embrace.
If he cannot see what is here now—what can he know of union with the Lord!

One who lives in the darkness of the past—what can he know of the new dawn!

The past surrounds us—memories. The future surrounds us—imaginations. Between the two our present is crushed, dying. And if awakening is possible—only in the present. The past has gone—how will you awaken in it? It is not. The future has not come—how will you awaken in what is not yet? What is—this moment, here and now—only in this moment can awakening happen. So the mind that can free itself of past memories and future fantasies—awakens.

The whole process of meditation is a method of freeing from past and future. But we live in non-things: the past—we live there fully; people sit thinking of past and future—what will happen tomorrow? Entangled in both, the present passes by. Only the present belongs to God—the past and future belong to the mind. Only the present belongs to the Self. God knows only one time: the present; and you have no inkling of the present—you know two times: past and future. Hence you and God never meet. Hence you ask endlessly, Where to find God, how to find—go to Kashi or Kaba, Kailash or Girnar? Go where you will—you will not arrive; you will remain where you are. Yes, if you come into the present, there is no need to seek God—God will come seeking you.

In a school the teacher said to the children, Draw a beautiful picture. All drew—one a horse, one an elephant, one a camel. One boy’s was astonishing: a blank sheet. The teacher asked, Where is the picture? The boy said, This is it—a cow eating grass in a field. The teacher said, Where is the grass? The boy said, The cow has eaten it—where will grass be now! The teacher asked, Then where is the cow? He said, Why would the cow remain? She ate the grass and left.

Your life is like that. The grass that was once—long eaten. The cow that was once—long gone; or the grass that will grow someday; or the cow that will come someday. And now? Now the canvas is blank. But this blank canvas is the true face of existence. If you descend into the present—there is neither thought nor desire; there is only peace, supreme peace—emptiness. In that emptiness is the realization of the Full. Call it awakening, awareness, watchfulness, apramada, dhyana, surati, smaran—whatever you like—but this is the essence of all the saints.

Avasar beeti jab jaihai ho, pache pachhitaat.

When the opportunity has passed, do not repent—later there will be much to regret.

Din dui rang kusum hai ho, jani bhulo koi.

These days are passing. The day is a flower: it blooms in the morning, withers by evening. It has two colors—daylight and dark. But it is a flower—now here, now gone.

Padhi-padhi sabahin thagawal ho, apani gati khoi.

By studying and studying people are deceived. They think that by reading scriptures they will find truth. If only it were that easy! If only so cheap! Then we would teach religion as we teach mathematics and geography. Then there would be no obstacle. But religion cannot be taught.

Padhi-padhi sabahin thagawal ho…

All are cheated by reading and reading—

…apani gati khoi.

They lose their own way—entangle themselves in words, doctrines, scriptures; the load keeps increasing. They seem to know much—and know nothing. Ignorance hides; it does not disappear. Babble of knowledge comes—people repeat like parrots. Teach a parrot and it repeats; one parrot becomes a Hindu, another a Muslim, another a Christian. Teach a parrot the Bible—it becomes Christian. Teach the Gayatri—it becomes Hindu. Teach the Navkar mantra—it becomes Jain. But a parrot is a parrot—neither Jain, nor Hindu, nor Muslim. What has a parrot to do with it!

Our memory too is merely a mechanical parrot. Such reading will not do. This is not a matter of reading and writing. Kabir says: it is not a matter of written learning—it is a matter of seeing. It is a matter of darshan, of direct vision, of experience.

Sur nar nag grasit bho ho, sak rahyo na koi.

Men are entangled—and gods too—in idle talk, in useless disputes. Those you call ignorant are entangled, and those you call learned are entangled—munis, mahatmas, yogis—in grand debates.

Jani bujhi sab haaral ho…

And all this is done knowingly. Everyone knows truth is a matter of experience—and yet they deny. It becomes very difficult when someone knowingly does so—like one who is awake and pretends to sleep; it is hard to wake him.

Jani bujhi sab haaral ho, bad kathin hai soi.

Great difficulty has arisen because all know and yet deny. They lie awake and pretend to sleep. The alarm will ring—they will not rise; call them—they will not rise; shout—they will not rise. They have decided not to, for they are already awake. A sleeping man—when the alarm rings, he must awake.

The greatest difficulty is this: by nature we all know what truth is, but we knowingly deny it, knowingly choose illusion. Why knowingly choose illusion? For one reason only—if you see it, revolution happens—the reason is: if truth is, the 'I' will not remain; the ego will not remain. The ego can survive with falsehood, with illusion. And you do not want to lose yourself—you want to remain, to remain forever. Therefore you surround yourself with lies; the 'I' is nourished by untruth. Truth is the death of the 'I'. The day you see truth, that day the 'I' dies. You will remain—but not as 'I': as consciousness. That consciousness will have no adjective; there will be no mine–thine. Our whole game is mine–thine. We are so entangled in it—beyond reckoning.

Two men were in court. The magistrate asked, Tell me, why this quarrel? Why the beating? How did your heads split, blood flow—you two are old friends! Each said to the other, Brother, you tell. The magistrate said, Why don’t you tell—either of you. They said, What can we say? If there were something to say—punish us as you wish, but do not disgrace us further. The court was full—the whole village had gathered. The magistrate said, How can I punish—first I must know the cause. With difficulty one agreed to speak: We were sitting in the river sand chatting; he said, I am buying a buffalo; I said, Don’t buy a buffalo—because I am buying a field. Old friends that we are—if someday your buffalo enters my field there will be a quarrel for nothing. I have finalized the field—given earnest money. He said, I have given earnest money too—the buffalo will be bought! I said, Then beware—by mistake even your buffalo must not enter my field. He said, A buffalo is a buffalo—can we follow it all day? There are other tasks too. If sometime it enters, it can enter. I said, If it enters my field it will not be good. He said, What will you do? I said, Try to make it enter. The matter heated. With my finger I drew my field on the sand—Here is my field; this wicked fellow, with his finger, made his buffalo enter. Then the beating happened. That is why we were ashamed to say anything—there is no field, there is no buffalo, and our heads are split.

So it is with you. In the games which bind you—there is no field, no buffalo; but heads are breaking; you are fighting and quarreling—what havoc! For centuries—growing thicker. Man fights man, castes fight castes, nations fight nations—for what? Let someone think once! Behind every fight is the ego—My field! Who are you that your buffalo should enter? He says, My buffalo—who are you? What is your field? The buffalo will enter—here it is; it has entered. Two 'I's collide; where there is 'I', there is violence; and this 'I' cannot live without violence, without illusion—its food is Maya. Therefore, knowing full well that all is futile, insubstantial—Do you not know all is futile? Do you not know that tomorrow, when you die, all will be left—field and buffalo? You know!

Gulal says rightly:

Jani bujhi sab haaral ho, bad kathin hai soi.

Nischai jo jiya aavai ho, Hari-nam bichar.

If this much becomes clear to you—that knowingly you practice forgetfulness—if this resolve arises, then in this world only one thing is worth attaining: Hari-nam. Worth pondering one, worth gaining one, worth living one—Hari-nam. But the offering required for Hari-nam is the 'I', the ego.

Tab Maya man manai ho, na to vaar na paar.

The day the ego is offered, that very day the far shore is found—otherwise there is neither this shore nor that. Then it goes on for births upon births—this darkness, this dream stretches on. Until then your mind will not agree; the moment the ego dissolves, the mind agrees—supreme rest descends; all agrees, fulfilment happens.

Santan kahal pukari ho, jin soonal bani.

Saints have called and called; but you must listen. Those who listened to their word—revolution happened in their life.

So jan jam ten bachhal ho, man Sarangpani.

Those who listened escaped birth and death—becoming the Lord’s—Sarangpani, Vishnu. All names are names of the Divine—all names one.

Avari upav na ekau ho, bahu dhavat koor.

There is no other means—do not run about much. A foolish man runs much, reaches nowhere. There is only one way to arrive.

Aapuhi mohat samrath ho, niyare ka door.

God is neither far nor near—and the great wonder: you are capable, yet deluded. If you wish, you can come out right now—this very instant. But people are cunning; they devise theories: There are karmas of many births—how can we come out just like that? First we will cut past karmas, then we will emerge. These are excuses—like a man, upon waking, saying, How can I get up now—there are dreams of the whole night; first I will cut the dreams, then I will get up. Get up—and dreams are cut. No one cuts dreams and then rises; by rising, dreams are gone. And no one attains God by cutting past karma; by attaining God, all past karma are cut.

Prem nem jab aave ho, sab karam bahav.

When the law of love arrives—all karmas flow away. Do not be afraid—a revolution can happen in an instant.

Tab manuwa man manai ho, chhodo sab chaav.

In that very moment the mind yields—like a bird returning at dusk to its nest, you return home; all cravings fall; all idle wants vanish. What wants they are! What all man does not want! And the strange thing: if you get it, no fulfilment; if you do not get it, you are miserable—if you do, still no contentment. Consider—reconsider.

Yah pratap jab hove ho, soi sant sujan.

He in whom this glory happens—who sees with clear vision that awakening is, that awareness is, that awakening can happen now, with only one condition to fulfill—to drop the ego—he alone is a true saint; he alone is siddha.

Binu Hari-kripa na pave ho, mat avar na aan.

No other help is needed—only Hari’s grace. And it is already falling—pearls shower in all ten directions. His rain is happening; only your pot is turned upside down by ego—the rain goes on, your pot remains empty.

Kah Gulal yah nirgun ho, santan mat gyan.

This is the essence of the saints’ teaching: He is nirguna—without attributes; no color, no form. Therefore when you too drop all colors and forms of the mind and become within yourself nirguna and nirakara—formless—at once union happens. You too are nirguna; He is nirguna—both meet instantly. But you cling to attributes: my name, my address; I am woman, I am man; I am fair, I am dark; I am rich, I am poor; I am sadhu, I am mahatma—you load yourself with countless attributes. He is without attributes. Because of your attributes union does not happen. Look within—you are only the witness; you are the seer of all. You are not the body, hence you can be neither woman nor man. You are not the mind—hence you are neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Communist nor Catholic; neither Indian nor Chinese nor Japanese. Neither body nor mind—you are the witnessing within.

Witnessing is the nirguna state—like a mirror—pure mirror you are. The moment you know this, union happens; the pot turns upright—and the rain was already falling, pearls were already showering; your bag will fill. Then the mind comes to rest; desires drop of themselves. What was never even asked for—that too arrives; what is beyond wanting—that too arrives. The Master Himself arrives—then what remains to want of His dominion?

Kah Gulal yah nirgun ho, santan mat gyan.

Jo yahi padha bichare ho, soi hai Bhagwan.

And God is not some person sitting far away in the sky. Whoever experiences this nirguna state—that one is Bhagwan. God is the name of the experience of the nirguna state. You too are God—only asleep, that is another matter; you do not open your eyes, that is another matter; you are caught in a thousand nets—that is another matter. But your godliness is untouched. Your very nature is godliness. Whenever you awaken, you will find God within. You have not lost God for even a single moment—you cannot lose Him; there is no need to find what cannot be lost. How will you find what is already present? You have only turned your back—turn around, begin the inner journey, look within—who sits there? You will find Him enthroned.

The day you know that within you is God, that day you will know He is within all. Then the whole existence is full of godliness. That experience is nirvana—that experience is moksha.

Pearls are raining in all ten directions!

Enough for today.